Way Too Anxious

Dana DeArmond and her husband Billy are exhausted, nerves shot. Billy books her a massage to loosen the knots. They arrive at the parlor right when Casey Calvert is ready to clock out. One look at Dana tells her everything she needs to know. "I can’t leave in good conscience," she tells Billy. "Go on home. Your wife needs this." Billy nods, grateful. Dana can’t quiet the noise in her head, so Casey steps in close, lowers her voice, promises relief so complete Dana will walk out weightless. Skeptical, Dana strips. Her body fights the act—back tense, voice still running—but Casey keeps her touch slow and certain, coaxing her belly-down across the table. A bolster beneath Dana’s hips tips her hips open. Casey begins at the feet, rolling the sole under firm thumbs until the first sighs break through Dana’s chatter. Hands climb higher. Heated oil slicks the skin, fingers trace muscle seams to the buttocks, spread them wide, knead. By the time Casey cups her mound and strokes the slick heat between Dana’s folds, words have deserted her. Only gasps remain. The last coil of tension unwinds in a stuttering moan as Casey’s touch burrows in, pulses, deepens—her cunt full, the outside world forgotten.